


Burns Longer

by circ_bamboo



Category: Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-08
Updated: 2012-05-08
Packaged: 2017-11-05 01:00:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/400171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/circ_bamboo/pseuds/circ_bamboo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There really is a cellist. She did move to Portland. Major spoilers for the movie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> There are two versions of this story: one where he dies, and one where he doesn't. Click on the link as given in-text to switch versions (which is chapter 2 of this story).

Ellie wishes she’d been able to say that meeting Philip J. Coulson in the middle of a disaster isn’t par for the course, in the run of her love life, but it really is. She’d met her ex-fiance at a vigil mere days after 9/11, and for about a year she’d dated one of the EMTs who had come when her apartment had caught fire.

And really, what with superheroes flying around, any musician who takes a freelance gig in New York City should probably expect some sort of explosion.

Ellie’s first priority, when projectiles start to fly, is her cello; it cost more than she’s willing to admit and her case, which is subway-and-airplane-proof, is in a service closet halfway across the room. She goes to hide behind a pillar and covers the cello with her own body. The bow, which was almost as much as the cello, she stuffs down her shirt; even if the hair is damaged, it’s less expensive than replacing the whole bow. It makes moving a tad difficult, but she manages it anyway.

Something explodes just off to her left and she cringes and wraps her arms a little more around the instrument, trying not to knock the bridge out of alignment any more than necessary. The gig had paid pretty well and she was expecting to use the money to pay her rent for the next month, but that might not happen now, especially if she has to repair her cello. Because without it, she can’t make more money to pay the rent. It’s sort of like the goose that lays the golden eggs, and she can’t help but giggle because _something_ , she has no idea what, is making things blow up around her and she’s thinking of _fairy tales_.

One of the black-suited G-men (she’s always wanted to say that, even in her own head) stops in his tracks and looks over at her, raising an eyebrow. She shrugs around the cello and, surprisingly, he smiles at her. He’s a few years older than Ellie’s thirty-mumble and his hairline’s receding, but he looks . . . nice. Which is odd, for a government agent running around with a gun shooting at Doom-bots or whatever they are. (No. Doom-bots were a few months ago, right?)

It’s all over ten or fifteen minutes later, and Ellie didn’t even get to see any real live superheroes. She’s not entirely disappointed, though, because her cello is _fine_ , and she didn’t even manage to sweat all that much on her bow so she probably won’t need to have it rehaired. She’s dusty and gross, sure, but that's nothing. The other three members of her string quartet--all of whom play much smaller instruments--appear to be fine as well; they’re coming out from behind a half-wall.

The pianist is fine, too, but the piano is a lost cause.

The government agents start herding all the uninjured people out of the room, clearing them away from the four or five people who actually were injured. There’s still the occasional piece of plaster or concrete falling, and she winces when one of them lands only a few feet from her.

The second violinist, Jim, says, “Ellie, I’ll grab your case for you.”

“Thanks,” she says.

Kari, the violist, hands her instrument to Jill, the first violinist, and starts picking her way over to try to collect what remains of their music and stands. It’s a lost cause, too, except for one Manhassett stand. Kari emerges, triumphantly, with it, and it says PROPERTY OF JUILLIARD MUSIC SCHOOL in white letters on the black, which means it’s Jim’s stand, as he’s still in school there and can appropriate stands. “Oh well,” Ellie says, and Kari shrugs.

Jim brings her case and she dusts off the strings with her cloth as best she can before she puts the cello away, the bow snapped into its slot in the lid. She’ll inspect it for actual damage when she gets home, but for now, this is good enough. She’s just closing the latches when a couple of G-men come over to the quartet members.

“Ma’ams, sirs, you’ll have to leave now,” one of them says, a tall, dark-haired woman.

“Yes, believe me, we’d love to, but these instruments are worth more than both of your yearly salaries,” Jill snaps. “Combined.” She’s still wiping down her violin.

“Jill,” Ellie says. It’s true--Jill’s playing on a borrowed Guarneri right now--but that doesn’t make it the right thing to say.

“We understand,” says the second government agent, and he’s the same one who smiled at her earlier. “However, we need to clear the area. Is there anything we can do to help?”

Jill laughed. “You think I’d trust you within ten feet of my violin?” She rolled her eyes. “Likely you don’t even know a violin from a viola.”

“I’m pretty sure the viola burns longer,” he says, completely deadpan, and Ellie laughs out loud.

He looks over at her and smiles again. He’s almost aggressively non-descript, but his smile is genuine, and Ellie likes it.

Jill glares at her for her laugh, but it was totally worth it. She doesn’t discover how worth it was until later, when she gets home and discovers a business card in her pocket, with his name--Phil--and a phone number on it.

* * *

She calls about a day later; she’s not exactly a blushing virgin, even if she isn’t particularly used to getting numbers slipped into her pocket. Actually, she’s still not sure when he slipped the card in there; she’s not entirely sure that she’d cut the stitches on the back pockets of that particular pair of pants, either. Nonetheless, she calls, and he answers. “Coulson,” he says.

“Phil?” she says. “It’s Ellie. The cellist.”

“Yes, of course,” he says. “Do you happen to be free next Thursday night?”

“I am,” she says, and it’s nice that he doesn’t ask about Friday or Saturday. “What did you have in mind?”

“Dinner,” he said, “maybe drinks.”

“All right,” she says.

He names a restaurant, and it’s not far from where she lives. They agree to meet at seven-thirty.

After she hangs up, she tries Googling ‘Phil Coulson,’ but doesn’t get any results. She’s really not surprised at all.

* * *

He shows up, dressed in a gray suit and blue shirt, exactly on time. Ellie’s wearing a black dress and dark hose, because it’s cold. She only owns a couple of dresses, because they’re not useful to a professional cellist, and this is the shorter of the two. It’s worth the inconvenience of heels, because she catches him looking at her legs, even through the black hose.

“Eliana Brecher,” he says.

“Philip Coulson,” she replies. Her name was in the program for the event, so it’s not surprising that he knows it. He probably knows more than that about her, but it’s polite that he’s pretending otherwise.

The restaurant he’s chosen is lovely; Ellie’s entree is tasty, and the dessert--a piece of the house cheesecake--that they share is even better. What tops the whole night off, of course, is what happens after.

They share a cab back to her apartment, and he tells the cab to wait while he walks her to the door. Before he can say anything, though, she says, “Do you want to come up?”

Even in the streetlamp-lit dark, she can see his face light up, and he takes a step backward to hand a pile of cash to the cabbie and shut the door in one quick motion. “Yes,” he says, and she smiles.

Her apartment is a tiny, cramped studio; there is no dining room and the bed is about two feet from her kitchen sink, but she doesn’t have a roommate, and it’s clean. He wanders around for a moment, looking out both windows, brushing his fingers over her dozen linear feet of CDs, and she assumes it’s telling him more about her than she can see. He stops short at the three cello cases in the corner--yes, she owns three cellos--and asks, “Is your cello okay?”

“It’s fine,” she says. “Do you want something to drink?”

“No,” he says, and a moment later, they’re kissing.

He’s great with his hands, she discovers over the next hour or so, but even better with his mouth, and by the time he’s sliding inside her she’s so wrung out with pleasure that it’s basically a matter of holding on.

“I can’t stay,” he says afterward, apology clear in his tone. “I have to be at work at seven tomorrow.”

“That’s fine,” she says. “A few more minutes?”

“Definitely.” He kisses the side of her head and says, “I didn’t realize your hair was so dark.”

“Plaster dust,” she says, and he chuckles. Her hair _is_ dark; her skin is dark, too, especially compared to his, and her eyes are dark brown. She runs a thumb over the lines in his forehead, and he catches her wrist and runs his thumb over the calluses on the tips of her fingers.

He’s got scars, round shiny ones she thinks are likely bullet holes, and raised lines that are either from knives or a lot more surgeries than anyone should have had by forty-ish. She doesn’t ask about them, and he doesn’t ask about the line on her back where she donated a kidney to her sister.

“So how did you know that viola joke?” Ellie asks instead.

“I have a cousin who used to play the viola,” he says. “Are there any good cello jokes?”

“What’s the difference between a cello and a bass?” she says.

“I don’t know; what?”

“The bass makes a better keg.”

Phil laughs. “I’d like to see you again,” he says a minute or two later, “but my job--my schedule is a little erratic.”

She smiles against his shoulder “Mine, too,” she says. “If you want a Friday night date, you’ll have to wait a couple of months.”

He laughs.

He redresses with quiet efficiency; she watches him from the bed, and shrugs on a bathrobe to walk him to the door and kiss him goodbye. He promises to call in a few days, and she figures even if he doesn’t, she still had a hell of an evening.

* * *

Phil does call, Saturday afternoon, but Ellie is practicing and doesn’t hear her phone ring. He leaves a short message--“Ellie, it’s Phil; give me a call when you can.”--and she’s irrationally happy to hear his voice.

* * *

Ellie sent in her resume for the audition in Portland about two months before she met Phil, because she wants a full-time job. About two hundred other cellists are auditioning as well, so she knows her odds aren’t very good. When she makes it to the semifinals, she sends Phil a surprised text, and he sends her back, _Congratulations._

When she makes it to the final three, she’s even more surprised, and when they announce that she’s won, and that she’ll be starting in June, she’s astonished. Normally people don’t go from being a chamber musician and sub, even in New York City, to being the assistant principal cello in the Oregon Symphony, but she apparently will.

That gives her four months to clean up her life in New York and move out to Portland. _Okay_ , she thinks. _Four months is a really long time._

* * *

It’s not really long enough, in some ways. She and Phil have moments stolen here and there between what she assumes are disasters on his part, and gigs on her part. He cancels a few dates because he’s out of town, and she cancels a few when she gets last-minute work. One time she’s called to sub in the Met orchestra, and when she leaves the pit at intermission, she finds Phil, looking very fine in a tuxedo, sitting in the audience.

“I wanted to hear you play,” he says, when she asks why he’s there.

She grins. “Too bad intermission is only ten more minutes,” she says, and he raises an eyebrow in her. All flippancy aside, it definitely warms something in her heart to hear that he wanted to hear her play.

She plays for him later, a couple movements of Bach suites, and he is very appreciative.

Very.

* * *

Ellie talks about her job a lot, since being a freelancer means that hustling for work takes up most of what would be her free time. Several dates in, she confesses to watching C-SPAN almost religiously, and Phil nearly chokes, he laughs so hard. In return, he solemnly confesses to a minor in art history, which makes _her_ laugh.

He doesn’t talk about his job, obviously, but once--just once--he lets something slip, and later, when she thinks about it, she’s convinced he does it on purpose.

She’s complaining about one of her recent gigs, where for some reason, the quartet was expected to stick around the reception afterward and socialize. “It’s not as if the event was run by a personal friend of any of ours,” she says, “and honestly, it made me feel like the hired help.”

He nods. “I have--some experience in that matter,” he says. “I occasionally work with someone who might even have been at that party, and he treats everyone, including his girlfriend, like hired help, sometimes. Well,” he adds, “his girlfriend used to be his PA, so maybe that makes sense.”

And Ellie, who dabbles in CNN when C-SPAN is being exceptionally boring, puts together ‘wealthy’ and ‘jerk’ and ‘ex-PA girlfriend’ and comes up with ‘Tony Stark,’ which leads her inexorably to ‘Iron Man,’ because she may be a classical musician but that doesn’t mean she’s completely unaware of everything that’s been going on in the country for the past few years. She’s pretty sure she saw Dr. Reed Richards one time in a coffee shop.

She doesn’t say anything other than, “Hm.” If she asks, he won't say anything. Besides, what is she going to do with the knowledge that he knows Iron Man? Ask for his autograph? She met Tony Stark once, sort of, at a benefit she played for the Maria Stark Foundation; a very drunk dark-haired man in most of a tuxedo walked in front of the quartet, asked if they knew “Purple Haze,” and was dragged off by a pretty redheaded woman before anything else happened. The violist leaned over to her in between movements and said, “That was Tony Stark,” and Ellie shrugged and flipped through her music.

Instead of asking about it, she runs the calloused tips of her fingers down his side, and he gasps and flips her onto her back in a ninja move that she _loves_.

* * *

The four months end all too soon, and it’s the last week of May when they have their final date. “If you’re ever in Portland,” she says.

“If you’re ever back in New York,” he says, and smiles.

It isn’t a grand romance; it’s quiet and companionable, and the sex is _really_ good if not particularly flashy, other than Phil’s occasional ninja flips. So it is probably fitting, Ellie thinks, that the end is because of a cross-country move for a job. They spend the night in with pizza and a terrible comedy movie, and finish it off with one last round of lovemaking. She kisses him goodbye, says she’ll miss him, and means it, and doesn’t cry until he’s already gone and she is sitting in her nearly-empty apartment with only the hum of her elderly refrigerator to keep her company.

* * *

Ellie settles into Portland life relatively easily, even though she’s lived her entire life in New York City prior to this. She buys a bicycle right away and signs up for a driver’s-education class, as she’s never driven a car in her life and thinks she ought to buy one soon. The Oregon Symphony’s summer season is somewhat sparse, so she takes some gigs in the area, including one with the Portland Cello Project, and that’s an eye-opener.

Phil probably would have liked that concert, she thinks, and it doesn’t hurt. It makes her smile.

* * *

Like everyone else in the entire country, if not the world, Ellie watches the broadcast of the alien-invasion disaster in New York, unable to tear her eyes from the screen. It’s unfortunately a familiar feeling--her hands shaking, her heart in her throat, her stomach churning--because she lived on Manhattan during 9/11. The handful of Oregon friends she’s made who have come to her apartment (they don’t own television sets) are horrified, of course, but not in the same way.

It doesn’t occur to her until the fourth or fifth time she sees the footage of Iron Man falling from the sky, only to be caught by the Hulk, that Phil might be involved. She suppresses her urge to call his cell phone, because if he’s involved, he’s probably busy.

She doesn’t sleep that night, not much; she falls into an exhausted doze around daybreak but wakes up before nine. She’s got a rehearsal later that day and music usually helps to take her head out of her problems, but she can’t concentrate enough to practice. Eventually she makes a pot of coffee, downs half of it, and takes a long shower to wake herself up. The rehearsal helps, but it’s not enough to let her sleep.

The next day isn’t much better; at some point, she gives in and Googles Phil’s name to see if anything comes up, and of course it doesn’t. She should know better by now.

[[to the version where Phil isn’t dead](http://archiveofourown.org/works/400171/chapters/658810/)]

In the middle of the afternoon, she hears a knock on her door; she isn’t expecting anyone, but she’s awake and dressed and might as well answer it. She does, and there on the other side is a tall blond man in some sort of formal military uniform, along with a woman with bright red hair, wearing a suit with a skirt. “Hello?” Ellie says.

“Eliana Brecher?” the man says.

“Yes,” she says. “And you are . . .?”

“Captain Steven Rogers,” he says, holding out a hand rather formally, and Ellie gapes for a moment before shaking his hand because unless she’s vastly mistaken, _it’s Captain America_ standing at her door. In Portland, Oregon. “This is Natasha Romanoff,” he says, indicating the woman, and Ellie shakes her hand, too. “You’re, ah, acquainted with Phil Coulson?”

“Yes,” Ellie says again. The lack of expression on his face and the frankly appraising expression on Ms. Romanoff’s face--probably Agent Romanoff, actually--make Ellie think that they both know that ‘acquainted with’ means ‘slept with.’

“Ma’am, I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, but Agent Coulson passed away recently.”

Ellie’s knees almost give out, and she grabs the doorframe to keep herself upright. Dimly she realizes that this shouldn’t be a surprise, but it _is_ , and she’s struggling to breathe.

Agent Romanoff comes forward, grabs Ellie by the elbow, and leads her over to the couch. “Put your head between your knees,” she says, and Ellie does. It gets easier to breathe a few moments later, and she looks up to see Captain (AMERICA) Rogers standing at parade rest, his back to her door. Agent Romanoff is sitting next to her on the couch, looking at her. “Better?” she asks, and Ellie nods.

“It was during the attack on New York, wasn’t it?” she asks, and Agent Romanoff nods.

“A little before that, actually,” Captain Rogers says, “but yes, it was related. If it makes you feel better, he died honorably in battle.”

It doesn’t. Ellie comes from a long line of academics, musicians, and other pacifist types, and she’s always been of the opinion that honorable death in battle is still _death_ , but she says, “Thank you for telling me.”

Captain Rogers nods, and Agent Romanoff says, “If you have any questions--we likely can’t answer them, but we’ll try.”

Ellie thinks for a moment. She doesn’t want to know how he died, because it isn’t important. “Did you also tell his parents?”

Captain Rogers looks surprised, but Agent Romanoff says, “There’s an official notification for family members. The captain and I are here . . . unofficially, you might say.”

“How did you know how to find me?” Phil has-- _had_ \--her address, probably; she gave it to him before she left, but she doesn’t think he’d keep it written down anywhere.

Captain Rogers flushes lightly, just over his cheekbones, and Ellie has a distracted thought that he’s positively adorable, interrupted when Agent Romanoff answers her question. Sort of. “If we told you that, Ms. Brecher, we’d have to kill you.” She says it with a smile, but Ellie knows it’s only half a joke.

“Natasha,” Captain Rogers says, tone disapproving. “Agent Coulson mentioned you to a friend of his, and that you’d recently moved to Portland; from there it wasn’t that difficult to find who’d won the audition.”

“Okay,” she says. “Again, thank you for telling me.”

Agent Romanoff stands, and says, “You aren’t exactly what I expected.”

Ellie stands as well; she looks down at herself, and then over at Agent Romanoff, and says, “Oh?” She was born and raised a New Yorker and even in extremis, she can do disdain like no other.

Agent Romanoff just smiles and says, “No. But that’s certainly not a bad thing.” She and Captain Rogers shake her hand again and leave, and Ellie closes the door behind them.

She’d asked Phil once, not in a self-deprecating way, why he wasn’t dating someone with security clearance, someone he could talk to about work, and he’d snorted and said, “That’s the last thing I want.”

She’d laughed, and he’d continued a moment later. “In all seriousness, at the risk of paraphrasing Billy Joel, I just want someone that I can talk to, about normal things like the weather and the Mets and the latest Congressional committee hearing about the outlook for the Consumer Financial Protection Bureau.”

Ellie had stared at him for a moment and said, “I’m not sure whether to throw a pillow at you for quoting Billy Joel or for making fun of me.”

“I’m very interested in the outlook for the Consumer Financial Protection Bureau,” he’d said, deadpan, and she’d thrown the pillow anyway.

She smiles, thinking about that conversation, and then it slams into her that Phil is _dead_ , that she’ll never see him again, even if she visits New York, and she gasps a few times before succumbing to tears.

It’s a few minutes before Ellie realizes that the melody she’s hearing in her head isn’t random: it’s Ravel’s setting of the _Kaddish_ , the Jewish prayer usually associated with mourning. She’s Jewish by heritage, sure, but she hasn’t set foot in a synagogue in at least ten years, and only manages to eat brisket if someone else makes it. The reason she still remembers all the words isn’t Hebrew school but because one of her roommates had asked her for help in pronunciation when she was singing the Ravel piece. Ellie herself isn’t much of a singer but the words are on her lips as she stands, wipes off her face, and goes to find her cello.

* * *

She assumes that Captain Rogers’s and Agent Romanoff’s visit will be the last she’ll ever hear from Phil’s--coworkers, she guesses, but it isn’t. A few days later, her phone rings, and it’s a blocked number but she answers it anyway. “Hello?”

“Eliana Brecher?” the voice, smooth and female says. “My name is Virginia Potts; I work with the Maria Stark Foundation, and we have a proposal for you.”

“A what?” Ellie says, startled, and clears her throat. “Excuse me; that was rude. Yes, I’m Ellie Brecher. How can I help you?”

“Ellie,” Ms. Potts says, and she sounds pleased for some reason. “I’m putting together a benefit concert for some of the New York nonprofits that were damaged in the recent . . . event. I would very much appreciate it if you would be willing to perform? You’d be paid, of course, and we’d handle your transportation, as well.”

“I . . . I don’t know what to say,” Ellie says. “I’d need more details.”

“Of course,” Ms. Potts says. “I’m not a musician, so bear with me if I get anything wrong, but it won’t be for about six weeks, which should give you some time to prepare. You can play whatever you want; if you need a pianist we’ll provide the piano, although the pianist is probably up to you since I don’t know any in town. If you’d rather play with an orchestra, though, the Orpheus Chamber Ensemble will also be performing at the concert, and I’m sure we could speak to them--”

“No,” Ellie says hastily. “No, I’ll just play with a pianist.” The Orpheus Chamber Ensemble! They are so far out of her league that she’s almost embarrassed to be on the same concert as them. “And I still know some people in town, so that won’t be a problem.”

“Good,” Ms. Potts says. “I haven’t got the final date yet, but I’ll send you an email when I do find out; it shouldn’t interfere with your orchestral schedule, as the season won’t have started yet.”

“That’s good,” Ellie says.

In the background she hears, “Pepper! Who are you talking to? I need you! Jarvis won’t bring me a beer!”

Ms. Potts sighs, very quietly, and says, “Excuse me for a moment.”

It’s muffled, but Ellie can hear a few words, like “medication” and “concussion.” When Ms. Potts returns, she says, “I’m sorry about that. Now, where were we? Oh, right. If you could send me the names of the pieces you’ll be playing for the program--you’ve got, I don’t know, fifteen or twenty minutes? Longer if you need it. And please send me the names as soon as you’ve figured them out; I’d be much obliged.” She rattles off her email address, as well as a phone number, and Ellie writes them down before hanging up.

A benefit concert. In New York. For the Maria Stark Foundation. She just got a phone call from Virginia ‘Pepper’ Potts, asking her to play cello for a concert.

She can do that.

It’s the work of about five seconds of brain-power to figure out most of what she’s playing: the Faure _Elegie_ , of course, and probably the Rachmaninoff _Vocalise_ , but that only takes her to about twelve minutes, and she can play one more piece. But what to play?

Oh.

The _Kaddish_.

If she can play it without crying, that is, she thinks, as she wipes a set of tears away from her face.

* * *

Six weeks later, Ellie is standing backstage at the Main Hall in Carnegie Hall. She’s played here before, as part of a group, but not as a solo performer. Normally she’d be nervous, especially because Tony Stark and Pepper Potts are standing about three feet from her, listening to Renee Fleming sing Mozart’s _Exsultate, Jubilate_ with Orpheus--well, Ms. Potts is listening; Mr. Stark is scribbling something on a cocktail napkin. Ellie met them the day before, when she flew in; Ms. Potts was very nice and very efficient, and Mr. Stark seemed delighted all out of proportion to meet her.

She’s not worried, though, and isn’t sure why. Her pianist, Mona, an old classmate of hers, is twitchy enough for both of them, shifting from foot to foot, and Ellie puts a hand on her shoulder to calm her down. Mona smiles and stops moving for a moment, but then the music ends, Ms. Fleming comes off the stage, and the orchestra starts shuffling off.

The stagehands start rearranging the stage for a single performer. She’s already played the _Elegie_ and the _Vocalise_ , and the audience seems appreciative, but the _Kaddish_ is definitely the least-accessible of the three pieces, and she has to play it right after, oh, one of the greatest sopranos alive just performed with one of the greatest chamber orchestras in the world.

No pressure, Ellie thinks, and smiles. “Mona,” she whispers. “What’s the difference between a viola and a chain saw?”

“What?” Mona says.

“If you absolutely have to, you can use a chain saw in a string quartet.”

Mona grins and shakes her head, just as the stage manager tells her she can go out on the stage.

They do, to the polite applause of the audience, and she and Mona take a bow before sitting down. Mona gives her an A, and she re-checks her tuning quickly before closing her eyes and taking a breath.

This one’s for Phil, Ellie thinks, and remembers his smile for a moment before she opens her eyes, signals Mona to start, and sets her bow to the strings.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the version where Phil isn't dead.

In the middle of the afternoon, she hears a knock on her door; she isn’t expecting anyone, but she’s awake and dressed and might as well answer it. She does, and there on the other side is a tall, strawberry-blonde woman in a navy-blue suit with a skirt. “Hello?” Ellie says.

“Eliana Brecher?” she says.

“Yes?” Ellie says.

“My name is Pepper Potts; I’m a friend of Agent Coulson’s.” There’s a slight hesitation before friend, but Ms. Potts--and Ellie recognizes her now--smiles at her. “It’s lovely to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you, too,” Ellie says automatically. She feels underdressed in jeans and a knit shirt, but there’s nothing she can do about it now. “What can I do for you?” she asks.

“Agent Coulson--Phil--has been injured. He’s doing okay now, but for a while we thought he was dead.” Ms. Potts sighs. “It’s a long story, but he’s awake now.”

Ellie frowns. “Did he ask for me?”

“No,” Ms. Potts admits. “But he’d mentioned you to me, and he seemed to like you very much, and was disappointed when you moved to Portland, so I thought maybe you’d parted on good terms and would want to see each other.”

She looks so hopeful that Ellie says, “Well, I guess--but you have to understand, we weren’t--” She doesn’t know how to end the sentence. Weren’t what? “We haven’t really been in contact since I moved,” she says finally.

“Ah,” Ms. Potts says, and she looks slightly uncomfortable. “That was, what, three weeks ago?”

Ellie nods. Only three weeks? Wow.

“Well,” Ms. Potts says, “it’s completely your choice, but I have a plane waiting, if you had some time and wanted to make a quick trip to New York. We’ll put you up in Stark Tower, of course.”

Ellie’s mad for the briefest moment--really, she has no choice here; she’ll feel like a terrible person if she says no--but says, “Can I have an hour to pack and rearrange my schedule?” She doesn’t have any concerts in the next week, but she does have a couple of rehearsals--nothing she can’t miss, though.

Ms. Potts’s smile is decidedly relieved, and she says, “Of course. Let me give you my phone number--just call when you’re ready to leave.”

* * *

It’s an hour and five minutes later when she calls Ms. Potts back, and joins her in the car waiting outside. The Stark Industries jet is smallish but sleek, and inside the seats are leather and the food service offered is gourmet.

“Tony--er, Tony Stark, that is--wanted to come with me to find you, but he’s still a bit loopy from the medication and I told him we didn’t want to scare you away,” Ms. “call me Pepper, please” Potts says, after Ellie compliments the plane.

“I met him once, I think,” Ellie says. “My quartet played a benefit for the foundation, a few years ago.”

“There’s a good chance he’ll remember you,” Pepper says, looking rueful.

Ellie boggles at that, and changes the subject. “Did you say that you thought that Phil was dead?” she asks.

Pepper nods. “I can’t really explain the situation, because I’m not supposed to know about it, but yes, we were told that he was dead, and when it turned out that he wasn’t, there was a lot of yelling.”

“What happened?”

“He was stabbed,” Pepper says. “There was surgery, a collapsed lung, lots of blood loss, et cetera. He’s doing as well as expected, if not better, but it’s going to take a while for him to get back to full health.”

“Ah,” Ellie says. She’s run out of topics, so she folds her hands and looks out the window for a moment.

“I never did hear from Phil--how did you meet?” Pepper asks, and Ellie tells the story.

“I won the audition out here about a month after we started seeing each other,” she says at the end, “so I guess we both knew it was temporary.”

“Ah,” Pepper says. “He really slipped a card in your pocket? Ugh, I can’t tell Tony--he’ll love it but he’ll never let Phil live it down.”

Ellie laughs at that. “I--it’s probably rude, but--”

“How do I stand Tony?” Pepper finishes.

“I wouldn’t have put it like that,” Ellie says, but Pepper waves it away.

“No, I understand,” she says. “He’s--” She smiles, her gaze drifting off, and it’s fond and affectionate in a way that Ellie understands, even if she doesn’t quite feel the same way. “It’s complicated,” Pepper says finally. “I’ve known him for a very long time.”

Ellie nods.

“And really, there’s only so many times someone can almost die before you realize there’s no point in pretending you don’t love him.”

Ellie freezes.

“Oh, no,” Pepper says, “I didn’t mean--I mean--you can’t really compare. It’s not--”

“I know,” Ellie says. She takes a deep breath, and continues. “I really don’t regret my decision to move, because it’s my job and it’s the most important thing for me, but sometimes I do wonder.”

Pepper nods, and they’re quiet for a while.

* * *

Tony Stark meets them in the lobby at Stark Tower, when they return; he’s bruised and limping but otherwise unharmed and apparently sober. He greets Pepper warmly and shakes Ellie’s hand, staring at her for a long moment. “You are not what I expected,” he says.

“Tony,” Pepper says, and it’s a warning.

“What? I didn’t say it was a bad thing. At least she’s not taller than Phil when she puts on _shoes_.”

Ellie blinks, looks between Mr. Stark and Pepper, and realizes that in her heels, Pepper towers over him. She doesn’t laugh, although it’s a close call.

“Although,” he says, and turns back to Ellie, his eyes narrowing. “March twenty-fifth, 2006, at one of the Foundation benefits: did I or did I not ask if your quartet could play ‘Purple Haze’?”

Ellie blinks again, and says, “Yes, you did.”

“Ha!” he says, and Pepper gives Ellie a _what-did-I-tell-you_ look.

“So,” Mr. Stark says a moment later. “I can think of about six other people who absolutely want to meet you, but I’m thinking the one you really want to see is in our secure medical facility.”

Secure . . . medical facility? “Can I drop my stuff off first?” Ellie asks.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Pepper says. “Of course.”

They show her to a luxurious guest suite; the bathroom is roughly the size of Ellie’s entire New York apartment, and not for the first time she wonders what on earth she got herself into. She stows her suitcase and cello, fixes her hair, and washes her hands and face before presenting herself to Mr. Stark and Pepper.

“Ready?” Pepper asks, and Ellie nods.

The elevator takes them to a different floor; Pepper swipes a card before they’re allowed to get off on that floor, and there are three separate ID checks before they are standing outside Phil’s room.

Through the window, Ellie can see that he’s awake and reading something on a tablet. She hesitates before going in. “Go on,” Pepper says. “We’ll wait out here.”

Ellie nods and pushes the door open. “Hi, Phil,” she says.

**Author's Note:**

> Alas, this story comes with a hell of a soundtrack. Here's the important highlights:
> 
> [Ravel's Kaddish, on cello](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UqapI8QB0B4) (not a great recording, but complete)  
> [Faure's Elegie](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dZmB68DuIPM)  
> [Rachmaninoff's Vocalise, also on cello](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lfVx8-SIyeU)  
> [A Bach suite, such as Ellie might have played.](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mGQLXRTl3Z0)  
> [A cello-heavy bit from Madama Butterfly](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GpjvgT0f3qs), performed by the Met.  
> Renee Fleming performing the Exsultate, Jubilate: [Part 1](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZPfsvCzGvGs), [Part 2](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=avxy0Czz3xQ).
> 
> For the record, I'm aware that Ravel's Kaddish is not actually a Mourner's Kaddish but a Hatzi Kaddish (also called a half kaddish) but it's a tad irrelevant for purposes of the story.


End file.
